“I miss the sea,” she whispers without voice.

She looks without eyes to London’s evergrey sky. A wooden arm extended as if pleading for rain. She knows that only the wind now brings her water.  No breaking waves will again caress her body and transport her away. It is decades since she last voyaged to China,  since sailor’s feet massaged her back.

Scars of storms, of fire, the lingering scent of stale tea.  She looks to the sky, waiting for the rain. Perils forgotten.  No spells from the witch can stop time, as she sleeps, an arm extended, white fingers clutching a forgotten stallion’s tail.

She hears without ears, the rumbling sky. She smiles without lips.

Plick.

Plick.

Plick.

It is raining.